Clutches and Curses (4 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

BOOK: Clutches and Curses
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It was decorated with sturdy industrial furniture in shades of burnt orange, brown, and avocado green that showed signs of wear. The registration desk was off to the left, and on the right was a small furniture grouping—the Culver Inn's idea of a lobby seating area, I guess. Beyond that were a dozen small tables and chairs, and along the back wall a continental breakfast buffet was laid out. A couple of people sat eating and sipping coffee, reading the newspaper and pecking away at laptops.
The place didn't look so hot, but I was glad to be there, and it was a relief to realize that everything that could possibly have gone wrong today already had. I mean, jeez, I'd found a dead body, how could things get any worse?
The woman behind the registration desk smiled when I walked up—which was a shock given the orange, brown, and green uniform she was forced to wear. I gave her my name and told her I had a reservation. She smiled brighter and tapped the computer keyboard in front of her.
Her smile soured a bit. “I don't see anything under your name,” she said.
My sleep-deprived brain took a minute to react. Jeanette had told me last night, as I was running for the door, that she'd call right away and have the Culver Inn hold one of the rooms Holt's had blocked off for the employees.
“I'm with Holt's,” I finally said. This was, of course, something I never admitted to anyone. But I needed to get to my room right away. If I stood there any longer, I'd probably pass out on the lobby couch.
The desk clerk nodded, as if this explained everything, and clicked a few more computer keys.
“Okay, here we are,” she said, then nodded again confidently. “Yes, yes, I see this now. And no, no, we absolutely don't have a room for you.”
I just looked at her for a few seconds, my mind taking its time to comprehend this.
“Okay, so you don't have a reservation for me,” I said, managing to sound calm as I mentally plotted my revenge on Jeanette for not taking care of my accommodations as promised. “Just give me any one of the rooms Holt's reserved.”
“No, no, those are all taken,” the desk clerk said. “Sorry.”
“So give me another room,” I said.
Okay, that sounded a little harsh, but come on. This was a motel. What was the big deal?
Apparently it was a majorly big deal, because the clerk just looked at me with her smile frozen on her lips.
“Any room,” I said. “I don't care.”
She gave me a tight smile. “There are no other rooms available.”
“None? Not one room?” I demanded. “Are you telling me that this entire three-story motel, with hundreds of rooms, miles and miles from The Strip, with questionable furnishings and accommodations, is full up?”
“I don't understand it,” the clerk said, shaking her head and managing to look convincingly bewildered. “This never happens. Never. It's as if something very odd hit us—completely out of the blue.”
Like maybe a curse?
I wondered before I stopped myself.
“Look,” I said, “there has to be something you can do. I need a room. Will you please call the motel manager and see if—”
Movement off to my left caught my eye. I turned and saw Detectives Dailey and Webster walk through the door, heading straight for me.
Oh, crap.
C
HAPTER
4
I
crossed the lobby to meet Detectives Dailey and Webster—no way did I want the desk clerk to overhear our conversation. If she claimed she couldn't find a room for me now, I knew she wouldn't go to any extra trouble if she knew I was being questioned by homicide detectives.
People are just strange like that.
“Find the killer already?” I asked, managing an encouraging smile.
I read somewhere that if you want something, you just had to say it aloud, put it “out there,” and you'd receive it.
From the look on Detective Dailey's face, I hadn't said it quite loud enough.
“We need to speak with you,” he said, and nodded toward the lobby doors. I saw what had to be his plain vanilla, police-issued car parked outside. No way was I going out there.
“Let's chat here,” I said.
I didn't wait for his response, just walked to the little seating area in the lobby. Dailey and Webster followed, as I knew they would. Men always follow if you walk away. It's some sort of hunting–tracking instinct left over from a couple million years ago—either that or they just wanted to look at your butt.
I sat down and they pulled up chairs. Detective Webster made a show of taking out his notebook and clicking his ballpoint pen.
I still don't like him.
“We just need to cover a couple of things with you again, Miss Randolph,” Detective Dailey said. “You told us you didn't know the victim. Is that correct?”
I hesitated a few seconds, waiting for him to get to the point, but he just looked at me.
“That's right,” I said. “I don't know the girl who got killed.”
This hardly seemed important enough to cause two homicide detectives to stop in the middle of an investigation, drop what they were doing, and rush over. But what did I know? I haven't watched
Law and Order
on TV in a while so maybe I was behind on my crime scene investigation techniques.
Detective Dailey let my answer just hang there for a moment, then said, “And you told us you'd never seen her before. Is that also correct?”
I looked back and forth between Dailey and Webster. They both watched me intently, waiting for my response.
Okay, so maybe they don't watch
Law and Order,
either. Maybe they do things differently in Henderson.
“I've never seen her before,” I said, and since they were making such a big deal out of it, I asked, “So who was she?”
“Courtney Collins,” Detective Webster snapped, like I should know who she was.
I got a bad feeling in my stomach—and it wasn't from all the chocolate I ate in the Holt's breakroom.
“So do you s
till
claim you didn't recognize her?” Webster demanded.
Maybe I should stop eating so much chocolate.
“That you didn't know her?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
No, maybe I needed
more
chocolate.
I glanced at the breakfast buffet at the back of the room. Did they have something chocolate there? A muffin or, better yet, a doughnut? Some Cocoa Puffs, maybe?
“Miss Randolph?” Detective Dailey said, leaning to his right to block my view. “Do you want to reconsider your answers?”
Okay, I'd had about enough of these two. I was tired, hungry, slightly nauseous, and it looked as if I was going to have to sleep in my car. The info I'd given them wasn't that complicated. There was no reason—no reason that would benefit
me
, that is—they should need to go over it again and again.
I stood up. They stayed seated. It was kind of cool looking down on them.
“Look,” I said. “I have no idea who this Courtney what's-her-name is. None whatsoever. I just got to Henderson this morning. I don't know anybody here. So unless you've got something else to ask—”
“You contacted her last night,” Detective Dailey said. “On Facebook.”
Oh, crap.
I sat down and flashed back to my apartment when Marcie was helping me pack. She'd used my Facebook page and contacted that girl I went to high school with. Oh my God. It was Courtney Collins. I'd forgotten all about her.
“That was Courtney?” I asked. “In the dressing room? Dead?”
“It was her, all right,” Detective Webster said. He swaggered a bit in his chair. “So why did you lie to us? Why did you claim you didn't know her? Or recognize her?”
Jeez, I could hardly take it in. The dead girl on the dressing room floor was Courtney Collins, that girl I'd gone to high school with?
I desperately needed something chocolate.
“You can't hide that sort of information from law enforcement. Not these days,” Webster said, barking the words at me like an annoying little dog. “First thing we did was look at her computer, cell phone records, e-mail account.”
Right now I'd settle for chocolate sauce and a straw.
“We know you contacted her on Facebook last night,” Webster said.
Actually, that was Marcie doing me a favor, trying to find me a friend here. No way was I going to throw Marcie in front of the bus.
“We talked to the manager of the Santa Clarita Holt's store,” Detective Dailey said, sounding a little more composed than Webster. “She told us you were insistent about coming to Henderson. You left immediately. You practically ran out of the store.”
Yeah, okay, I'd done that, but only because I didn't want to go to spa week with my mother. How could I explain that to the detectives? Since they didn't know Mom, no way would they understand.
I decided to take another tactic.
“I hadn't seen or heard from Courtney since high school,” I said.
“Which makes us wonder why, suddenly, you decided to come to Henderson and why, suddenly, you contacted her,” Dailey said.
Was this a good time to explain about the old woman who'd put a curse on me? A curse I didn't even believe in, myself?
I didn't think it would help my cause.
“So here's what it looks like to us.” Detective Dailey mellowed his voice and leaned in a little, like we were best friends and he was imparting some confidential info. “It looks as if you contacted Courtney Collins, lured her to the Holt's store, then killed her.”
“That's crazy,” I said. “Why would I do that?”
“That's what we intend to find out,” Webster told me. He stood up and threw a nasty look at me. “Don't leave town.”
Oh, crap.
 
I sat there in the lobby watching as Detectives Dailey and Webster left the motel, got into their dull, boring police car, and drove away. For a moment, I considered running after them, volunteering for a night's stay at the jail—just so I'd have a place to sleep.
Jeez, what had happened to my life? Going to jail had suddenly become a
good
thing?
And where was my official boyfriend in all this? For weeks, Ty had been after me to move in with him. It was
his
idea. Now I hadn't heard from him in two days.
Yeah, okay, I'd given him that ultimatum about withdrawing his request for us to move in together, but that's no reason for him not to call me, one way or the other. Now, of all times, when he could get me a suite at the Bellagio, the Venetian, or the Wynn—not to mention bail money.
Then it hit me. Maybe he'd called me last night when I was stuck on the side of the road with a flat tire and no cell service.
Oh my God. That was probably what had happened. There was a message—no, wait, a dozen messages—on my cell phone from Ty begging me to move in with him.
The scene played out in my mind. Ty telling me how wrong he'd been to put his work ahead of our relationship, how stupid he'd been to make me think he didn't value me above all else.
I pulled out my cell phone and put it to my ear, ready to hear Ty's apology repeated over and over in numerous voicemails.
I had no voicemails.
Huh. Okay, well, that didn't mean Ty still didn't feel awful about what he'd done. And to prove it, he'd get us the most fabulous penthouse in Vegas so we could—
Oh, wait. Ty didn't know I was in Vegas.
I punched in his number on my speed dial. Of course, it didn't suit me to call him, not with the whole ultimatum thing hanging unanswered between us, but what else could I do, under the circumstances?
I put the phone to my ear and readied myself for his heartfelt apology, his fervent thanks that I had called him.
His voicemail picked up.
Crap.
“I'm in Vegas. Call me,” I said, glad that I hadn't sounded desperate or anything.
I dropped my phone into my purse and sat there stewing. Even thoughts of the Delicious handbag couldn't cheer me up.
I dragged myself out of my chair and went back to the registration desk. The same woman was there, in the same hideous uniform that made her look as if she'd been sideswiped by the Partridge Family touring bus, clicking the computer keys. I doubted she was still looking for a room for me.
My first thought was to leap the counter and force her—I don't know how, exactly; my plans often have big holes in them—to find me a room. The last chocolate-charged brain cell in my head melted and, instead, I was left with only enough emotional strength to be nice.
“Look, Amber,” I said, after glancing at her name tag, “I drove in from L.A. last night. I haven't slept since yesterday. I'm completely exhausted. Could you please help me out? I desperately need a room.”
Amber looked up and smiled. “Well, certainly I'd love to. But there's just nothing available.”
Okay, so much for being nice. I don't know what I was thinking, really—it just shows how tired I was.
Back in the day, I'd worked for the Pike Warner law firm in Los Angeles, one of the biggest, baddest, most powerful, most feared law firms in the history of mankind. Yeah, okay, I'd worked in their accounts payable unit, but still, I knew what the threat of litigation could do.
“I'm seriously tired,” I said to Amber. “If I have to drive to another motel, and if I should get into an accident on the way, well, that could mean you and the Culver Inn could be liable.”
I had to hand it to Amber, she kept her smile in place and said, “Let me make a quick call to our manager.”
She picked up the phone, pushed some buttons, and turned her back to me.
Not a good sign.
I headed across the lobby to the breakfast buffet. If Amber was really calling security, I'd at least get thrown out of the place on a full stomach.
I stopped in my tracks. Oh my God. Everything was gone. The entire breakfast buffet had disappeared. Not a muffin, a sugar packet, or a pat of butter was left. Jeez, it had all been there just a few minutes ago.
This does
not
, however, mean that I'm cursed.
A door at the rear of the room swung open and a young woman walked in. Beyond her, I could see the kitchen. An aroma that smelled vaguely like food wafted out.
She looked to be about my age, kind of short, with dark hair. She had on an apron and carried a broom and dust pan.
“Any chance I could grab something to eat?” I asked as I walked over.
“Sorry, the buffet closed at ten,” she said as she swept beneath a table.
She shoved chairs around and whipped the broom over the floor at a frenzied pace. I could see she was in a hurry.
We've all got our own problems.
“I'm starving. I haven't eaten since yesterday,” I said, seeing no reason to mention the chocolate I'd consumed—strictly to aid in a murder investigation, of course. “All I need is a muffin. A banana, maybe. Something.”
She stopped sweeping and looked at me. Hopefully, I looked bad enough or desperate enough—or maybe both—that she'd take pity on me. Her gaze dipped to my purse.
“Oh my God. I love your bag,” she said.
I held it out. “It's a—”
“Dooney and Bourke,” she said, walking over. “Their spring collection. I love it.”
Instantly, I knew that not only would I get something to eat, I'd made a new friend. Purse lovers just find each other, somehow.
“Check out the lining,” I said, and unzipped the bag.
She gasped. I couldn't blame her. You can't beat a great lining.
“It's gorgeous,” she proclaimed, then leaned in a little and lowered her voice. “Sorry about the buffet. The motel manager is really strict about his policies.”

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